"I heard them again," she continued, "one night when I was waiting for you to telephone to me, Harry. Do you remember?" "Yes." "I waited a long time for you that night, Harry," and there was a catch in her voice. "Ludsey chimes have meant very much to us. Let us hear them out!" They stood together in the darkness until the last distant note had died away. It seemed to Rames that Cynthia listened as though she were taking a farewell of them. CHAPTER XXXVI THE TELEGRAM Harry Rames and Cynthia travelled up to London the next day. Cynthia was restless and excited. "Let us dine at a restaurant and go to a theatre, Harry," she said. "I can't sit still and stay at home to-night." "Very well. What shall we go and see?" "Oh, something with bright colors and movement and music." But there ran through the piece she chose a melody of a haunting wistfulness and Harry Rames, happening to glance at his wife in the darkness of the auditorium, saw that the tears were raining silently down her cheeks. "What's the matter, Cynthia?" he asked in a whisper. Cynthia smiled at him through her tears and laid a hand upon his arm. "Hush!" she answered. "It's all right, Harry." As the curtain descended at the end of the act she said, "Let us go now quickly, do you mind? Before the lights are turned up." They were, fortunately, near to the end of their row of stalls, and they were able to slip out while the curtain was still ascending and descending upon the lighted stage, and the auditorium still dark. Rames left Cynthia in the lobby while he went in search of his carriage. When he returned he found her standing with her face carefully turned to the wall in front of a commonplace engraving, which seemed to be demanding from her the most meticulous study. "Have you found it?" she asked, and she hurried with him across the pavement. "Let us go home, Harry. It was nothing except nerves. I was stupid. We have been doing a good deal lately, haven't we?" "That's all right, Cynthia. You poor little girl," said Rames as he crossed her cloak over her throat. He knew her too well to make the mistake of plying her with questions, and they drove to their home in silence. "You had better go to bed, Cynthia," he said. "I'll send your maid to you." "No. I am all right now," she answered. "I have something to say, Harry." She went forward to his study--that room with the mahogany panels where both had faced the hardest crises of their lives, had known the worst of their sorrows, the sweetest of their joys. Harry followed her, turned on the lights, and closed the door. Cynthia was already standing by the fireplace with a foot upon the fender; and she shivered as though she were cold. "Yes, it's chilly," said Rames. "Ill light the fire."